"Levi, this smells amazing..."
"Just bread," he finished, but his smile said he knew better. "Here, try some." He tore off a generous chunk and handed it to me, his fingers brushing mine in the transfer. The contact was brief, barely a second, but I felt it like electricity—a spark that traveled up my arm and settled somewhere behind my ribs.
I took a bite, and my eyes fluttered closed involuntarily. The crust shattered between my teeth, giving way to the soft, complex interior. Tangy and slightly sweet, with a depth of flavor that spoke to hours of fermentation, of careful temperature control, of experience and intuition working together. It was possibly the best bread I'd ever tasted.
"Oh my God," I managed around the mouthful. "This is incredible."
"Mabel's finest work." His voice was warm with pride, and when I opened my eyes, I found him watching me with an expression that made my heart stumble. Like my enjoyment of his bread was something precious. Something he wanted to see again.
"Mabel?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
"My sourdough starter." His grin turned sheepish. "I named her. The guys give me endless grief about it." The image of this broad-shouldered, gentle man tenderly caring for a jar of fermented flour was so unexpectedly endearing that I laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of me, rusty but genuine.
"That's adorable," I said before I could stop myself.
"Please don't tell the others. I have a reputation to maintain." He grinned as he took a spit of his coffee.
"As what? The pack baker?" I grinned at him.
"Exactly. Very tough. Very intimidating." He flexed one arm in mock seriousness, and I laughed again, feeling something loosen in my chest that had been tight for years.
"Come on," I heard myself say. "Let's take this outside. The back porch has a better view."
It wasn't until we were settled on my porch—him in the weathered Adirondack chair, me on the old wooden bench with my legs tucked beneath me, the bread between us and coffee warming our hands—that I realized what I'd done. I'd invited him deeper into my space. Into the private sanctuary I'd shown almost no one in five years. Instead of panic, what I felt was something closer to rightness.
The view from the back porch was my favorite thing about the property. The garden stretched out before us in organized rows of green, punctuated by the bright colors of ripening vegetables and the delicate pastels of herb flowers. Beyond that, the land sloped down to a small creek that caught the sunlight like scattered diamonds, with the forest rising in waves of green which seemed to breathe with the wind.
"This is incredible," Levi said softly, his voice carrying reverence. "You did all of this yourself?"
"Every bit of it." I looked at the garden—my garden—and felt the familiar swell of pride. "When I first got here, this was allovergrown. Brambles and weeds as far as you could see. It took me two full seasons just to clear the ground enough to plant anything."
"That must have been exhausting." He gave me a small smile before looking back out at the garden.
"It was. But it was also..." I searched for the right word. "Necessary. I needed something to pour myself into. Something that would grow if I gave it enough care, that would stay rooted if I tended it properly." My voice dropped, almost involuntary. "Things I couldn't count on from people."
Levi didn't respond immediately, and I appreciated that—the space to sit with what I'd revealed, the lack of pressure to explain or justify. When he did speak, his voice was thoughtful. "Can I ask you something? And you can absolutely tell me to mind my own business."
I took a slow sip of coffee, steeling myself. "Okay."
"Last night, when you showed us the plant... you mentioned that you'd been alone for five years. That people had left before." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "What happened? Who hurt you badly enough that you decided being alone was safer than risking connection?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through defenses I'd only recently begun to lower. I could deflect. I could change the subject. I could rebuild the wall he was asking me to walk through.
Instead, I found myself speaking.
"My mother was an omega who was never chosen." The words came slowly, dragged up from somewhere deep. "She spent her whole life waiting for a pack, for alphas, for someone to want her enough to stay. She tried to trap an alpha with me…but it didn’t work….so she went to try to get attentions from other alphas… They never did. Alpha after alpha, promise after promise, and every single one of them left eventually." I staredout at the garden, but I was seeing something else—a small apartment, the smell of cheap wine, my mother's tearstained face. "She taught me that wanting things was dangerous. That needing people was a weakness. That the only person you could count on was yourself."
"Daphne..." He whispered and I could hear the heartbreak for me in his voice.
"She died when I was nineteen..I got the call because I was listed as her last of kin…even after she gave me up…she died alone, in that same apartment, surrounded by empty bottles and broken promises." My throat was tight, but the words kept coming, a dam finally breaking. "I swore I would never be like her. Never wait around for someone who might leave. Never let myself need anyone so much that their absence could destroy me."
The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of what I'd shared. Then I felt warmth against my hand and looked down to see Levi's fingers resting near mine on the bench—not touching, not grabbing, just present. An offer, not a demand.
"That's not need," he said quietly. "What you're describing—not letting anyone in, never depending on anyone, building walls so high you forget there's a world outside—that's not strength, Daphne. That's fear wearing strength's clothes."
"I know." The admission cost me something, but it also released something. "I've been figuring that out lately. That maybe, just maybe my mother was wrong. That maybe being alone isn't the same as being safe. That maybe..." I hesitated, the next words feeling enormous. "Maybe I want more than just survival."
"What do you want?" The question hung in the air between us, simple and terrifying. I turned to look at him—really look—at this man who had shown up with bread and patience and no expectations, who had listened to my broken history withoutflinching, who was asking me what I wanted like the answer actually mattered.
